Unfortunately, when I flipped through my file to see if I could locate the original query letter from Kirk Mason, all I found was the large brown envelope the chapter had arrived in, stamped and addressed to the agency, but not to a specific agent. No letter. Curious, I turned to my laptop and searched through my list of sent messages, looking for the email in which I’d requested more material from Mr. Mason. My email didn’t contain a single correspondence from someone by the name of Kirk Mason.
Setting the packet aside, I read through the rest of the proposals and liked the last one well enough to request the entire manuscript. It was a cozy mystery set in an isolated mountain town and featured a women’s sewing circle. All five of the book’s heroines were married to members of the local police force. When their husbands failed to solve crimes in a timely fashion, the women secretly took over, only to give credit to the men in the end. I loved the humor and pluck of these women and couldn’t wait to read more about their exploits.
After tidying up my desk and sending a few confirmation emails to festival guest speakers and volunteers, I picked up the writing sample by Kirk Mason and headed down the hall to Jude’s office. Perhaps the author had meant to query Jude all along and somehow part of his first chapter had ended up on my desk. Things had been rather disorganized as of late. Without an intern, we were all trying to divvy up the incoming queries, and they hadn’t always ended up where they belonged.
Jude had his feet propped on top of his desk and was studying an image on his computer screen with such concentration that he didn’t hear me enter. Even though I’d been working with him for months, I couldn’t help but pause on his threshold and stare. He had the appearance of a classic film star—a rugged jaw, warm brown eyes framed by long lashes, and waves of dark hair. His lean, muscular body looked good in the tailored suits and cashmere sweaters he favored, and his full lips begged to be kissed.
I’d kissed him over the summer, and though we’d generated enough heat to cause a five-alarm fire, it had been a mistake. Jude loved women. He loved to flirt with women, chase women, and woo women, but I wanted a man who only had eyes for me. If my heart interpreted the signals correctly, that man was police officer Sean Griffiths.
Jude turned his head and smiled. My pulse raced a little faster, but I called forth the memory of my last dinner date with Sean, and my coworker’s allure instantly dimmed.
“Hi,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I was just admiring the festival page on our website. Good job.”
I shrugged at his praise. “That’s the handiwork of our web designer. I can’t take the credit.” I lowered myself into his guest chair. “It does look sharp, though, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t be so modest. It was your concept, your design. Mandy just did the technical stuff to get it on the Internet.”
“Thanks.” I grinned. “We’ve processed over two hundred registrations through the website and more by mail. I think the convention is going to be a great success. Based on the emails I’ve received, both the young adult fantasy panel and the one featuring members of area law enforcement are going to be standing room only.”
Jude’s eyes twinkled. “Isn’t your boyfriend participating in that session? You’ll have to make sure not to schedule any of your pitch interviews then.”
“Very funny.” I had, in fact, cleared my calendar for that hour, because I really wanted to see Sean in action. The other participants would include the DA’s assistant, a coroner, and a private investigator. The session promised to provide a plethora of information for mystery writers.
Jude leaned forward and clicked his computer mouse. “I’m excited about the festival, too.” He turned his monitor toward me. “I just wish the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts could have been ready in time. It would be a much better venue than the old town hall. Look at the layout of the building. This entire wing”—he indicated to the right of the screen and then again to the left—“and this one are both closed to the public. They branch out from the central area where we’re holding our sessions, and I’m hoping that the wooden barriers we erected will deter attendees from poking around in those spaces. They’re littered with construction debris. A total lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“We’ll just have to strategically place our message boards and information signs to keep people away from those areas.”
He nodded. “Good thinking. But we have to make sure people can’t get into those sections of the building. They have minimal lighting and they’re not safe. We must consider our liability.”
I gazed at the computer screen. The parts of the town hall we were using for the festival were labeled and coded in various colors according to their usage. The restricted wings appeared as ominous blocks of black. “It’ll be fine, Jude. And the Marlette Robbins Center will be ready for next year’s festival.” Inspiration Valley had been bequeathed the funds to build the Arts Center in honor of the late Marlette Robbins, a former homeless man and posthumously published author.